The Dancing of Music Notes
by BlackBandit111
Summary: Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk. -Susan Scarf Merrell. Sherlock plays his violin and remembers. No slash.


**_Hello there, fellow fanficition readers and writers! How are you on this fine February day? Happy Valentine's Day to you all! (Or, as people in my situation say, "Single's Awareness Day".) Anyways! Wrote this...not sure why...But anyways! Hope you enjoy!_**

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><p><em>Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.<em>

_-Susan Scarf Merrell_

The haunting melody of a Stradivarius echoed around the mostly empty flat, its tune slow. The forlorn notes hung in the air like mist before it dissipated, the cool and foggy depths unreadable but palpable. It was cold in this flat- not the cold of winter, which it was outside, but the cold of desolation, its spindly icy fingers creeping under every door, into every corner.

The snowflakes drifted gently and elegantly past the windows of 221B, dancing towards the ground and landing gracefully onto the pavement below. The violinist never faltered in his playing, the bow drifting softly over the chords with practiced ease. They stumbled slightly over the last note of the song, the silence stretching once it had finished. Then, another beat later, the melody started up again, same as the last.

The other occupant of the flat watched this musician from the doorway with a furrowed brow, his eyes downcast. Usually, the violinist would comment on this observation, but stayed silent, merely changing the position of his fingers and strumming again.

John Watson sighed as he looked over his disheveled flatmate, face drawn with exhaustion and strain. He felt his fingers trembling slightly and shoved them deeper into his pockets, ducking his head a little more. He swallowed thickly, trying to get past the lump in his throat to say what he needed to, but the words were stuck on his tongue like paper stuck to glue. They choked him slowly, and he could feel his hands grow colder as their shaking increased. He balled them into fists in his pockets, trying to stop it. Instead, the quivering intensified.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, but it was enough to echo and bounce around the chilly room. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees as the violin halted suddenly, the bow frozen in place as if it had just broken. A screech accompanied this sudden stop, but John ignored it, focusing on his immobile friend. "Sherlock. It's today."

The figure by the window stiffened, but did not say anything.

"Sherlock," John said, swallowing. "It's scheduled for ten o'clock the twenty fourth- today, in half an hour. We need to go if we're to make it on time."

The shadow remained still.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock," John muttered, hands tightening into fists once again as he attempted to reign in his loose temper, "come on. We need to _go_. I'm not letting you just blatantly miss it."

Sherlock Holmes's voice was quiet and slightly hoarse. "Alright, John. Alright." And he put down his violin and his bow with a tender sort of care, piled the note paper neatly on its stand, and turned slowly on his heel, walking past the army doctor and into his room. The door shut quietly, almost inaudibly, the click of the lock evident.

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. How had things gotten so muddled?

The door opened once more and Sherlock strode out, this time in proper clothing instead of pyjamas. He was dressed as usual: black dress pants, black button up, and shining black dress shoes. John's eyes trailed his friend as Sherlock slipped on his trench coat and navy blue scarf, wrapping it deftly about his alabaster neck. Although it was Sherlock's normal attire, to John it seemed dark and surrounded by an air of solemness. Perhaps it was their errand that made it seem so melancholy, or perhaps it was the look in Sherlock's eyes. Either way, it was unsettling, and made John fidget.

They descended the steps of 221B, Sherlock's steps slight and almost trepid. John felt something ache deep in his chest, but stayed silent. Sherlock had talked very seldom in the past few days, and John felt that it was for a particular reason; when Sherlock entered one of his strange but not altogether unexpected moods, John found it was smarter to wait until Sherlock either addressed it himself or snapped out of it. Either way, this mood was warranted.

He hailed a taxi and both of them clambered in, Sherlock's movements slower than usual and a lacking their alacrity. The past case combined with the stress of the previous days had surely taken their toll and were quite visible on Sherlock, but John couldn't muster the strength within himself to rebuke his friend for it.

They rode in silence, the air feeling stuffy and soupy it was so thick. John could've reached up and brushed the tension with his fingertips. Once they arrived John paid the cabbie from his own pocket. Sherlock was a flurry of activity once the taxi had stopped, jumping from the cab out onto the road and towards their destination even before John had a chance to undo his seatbelt.

Jogging so he could catch up to the long legged detective, John strode alongside him quietly, the look on Sherlock's face enough to keep him from speaking. They passed through the ornamental front gates and into the bleak, dark field that lay beyond. After another few moments of silence, John asked the one thing that he could think of to say at the moment: "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly, John having to nearly skid to a stop to stay in step with his friend. He knew Sherlock had heard everything unspoken in that one question: Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? Can I help somehow?

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'm...alright, John," he said, but it was an empty lie and sounded hollow. By the look on Sherlock's face, he knew it. "I'll be fine, John." He repeated, more forcefully.

This was said with more conviction, Sherlock's voice not nearly as hoarse as it was. John pretended not to hear the slight waver.

"I know you will, I know, just...yep. Alright. You'll be fine."

Sherlock didn't reply; he started walking again, but at a more sedated pace. John took a deep breath and followed.

They came upon the small procession a few minutes later, the only noise sniffles and shuffling. Very few were gathered around, perhaps six or seven, but all were standing and all had heads bowed. Sherlock's steps faltered a little and he seemed to stumble over himself before he continued onwards. John slowed along with Sherlock and made no comment on the change of pace; he cleared his throat and walked on.

They passed Mrs Hudson, Sherlock going stock still when she hugged him around the neck. They passed Mr. and Mrs Holmes without stopping, and passed Anthea, who was for once not looking at her mobile. The elderly priest was unperturbed by their lateness and therefore continued his blessings, his voice quivering with age. Sherlock stopped just in front of the coffin, hands clasped behind his back and lips pursed.

John shared a brief look with Lestrade, saying nothing. His eyes fell on Molly Hooper, her own eyes red rimmed.

He looked away.

The priest's speech ended and the two government officials gently lowered the coffin into the freshly dug soil, a neat pile of damp earth and two shovels to the right. They picked up the shovels, disregarding their suits, and began to fill the hole with the dark, shining black coffin on it, the golden clasps glimmering even when they were covered with dirt. Sherlock sucked in a breath and Mrs Holmes let out a small sob from behind them somewhere.

It began to rain.

Fat droplets landed in Sherlock's raven curly locks, which deflated when wet and left Sherlock looking a little like a corpse that stood. John tried to swallow down whatever was crawling up his throat and trying to force its way past his lips, whether it be a statement of pity, sympathy, or just a small sob or sigh for his friend.

Suddenly, umbrellas were being undone and thrown into the air against the delicate drops of water that fell from the sky, and Sherlock's breath hitched. John's jaw clenched.

The occupants of Kensington Cemetery only loitered for a few moments longer before dispersing, each heading in opposite directions. Molly Hooper was the first to begin walking away, only sparing a glance at Sherlock, whose eyes were firmly to the ground. Without a word to anyone, she was gone.

Lestrade left soon after this, shaking Mr Holmes's hand and gently patting Sherlock's shoulder, who didn't react at the touch. Then he, too, was gone.

The attendants left one by one, the only people left standing there after a while Mr and Mrs Holmes, Sherlock, and John. The hour drew later as the seconds ticked by slowly, like an injured bug trying to squirm across a table. Then Mr and Mrs Holmes were gone.

Sherlock and John stood alone in the middle of the cemetery, heads bowed, immobile. Silent. Sherlock's shaky breaths left little misty puffs in the air in front of his face before floating on, upwards. John's nostrils flared as he felt his dark dress shirt being soaked through his jacket, his shoes making squishing sounds as he shifted his weight. He rolled his shoulder as it began growing stiff from the cold; he spared a glance from the corner of his eye at Sherlock, who seemed entirely unbothered by the rain and was instead studying the ground. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was performing an experiment and cataloging the results of freshly dug soil after rain fall, but he did know better, and so banished the thought viciously.

It was a while before Sherlock began to speak.

"We never really got along, you know," Sherlock murmured. John had to strain his ears over the pitter patter of the rain to hear. "We were always arguing about something or another. Whether it an experiment's outcome, or over schoolwork, or just plain bickering."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock even knew he was speaking, his expression was so vacant.

"...We were...friends, once…" Sherlock muttered, voice even softer. The deep baritone cracked slightly somewhere in the middle and he sounded terribly awkward when saying this. "He..he was always willing...to...play Pirates…"

John swallowed, but didn't say anything.

It rained harder.

"And...now…" Sherlock trailed off, gulping desperately. He blinked rapidly and John was struck with the panic that if Sherlock actually began to cry (as alien and impossible as that seemed) he would have no idea what to do. "...he's...just…"

Gone. Gone like Sherlock's parents; gone like the procession; gone like the sun; gone like the killer. Gone.

Sherlock cleared his throat, clenching his fists. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, long eyelashes sitting on high, alabaster cheekbones. John tried to pretend that the lone drop that gently trekked down Sherlock's cheek was from the rain.

Sherlock cleared his throat again, eyes still shut. He took a deep breath. "Five seconds, John," he nearly whispered. "Five seconds, and then I'll be fine again." John blinked, pulling his freezing hands from his sopping wet pockets and trying to ignore the plummeting of his heart. Sherlock exhaled slowly. "One. Two. Three. Four."

He paused.

"Five."

His eyes opened. They were clear and dry, but a green-blue, the color they turned when he was upset. He took a deep, shuddering breath and turned on his heel, the moment over. "Come on, John!" He called over his shoulder, the tone one of distance and calculated coolness. "We have a killer to catch."

And if John was to use his imagination, he could picture Sherlock's lips turned into a snarl.

He followed at a slower pace than the frantic speed walk that Sherlock used, sparing a glance back. The sight that met his eyes made him swallow.

There, in the secluded part of the cemetery, stood one granite dark shaded grave, the only reason for it being there the connections that the man who had been buried had. John swallowed and shut his eyes as he walked, trying to forget the image engraved behind his eyelids. The grave had only had one name imprinted upon it.

MYCROFT HOLMES

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><p>The haunting melody of a Stradivarius echoed around the mostly empty flat, its tune slow. The forlorn notes hung in the air like mist before it dissipated, the cool and foggy depths unreadable but palpable. It was cold in this flat- not the cold of winter, which it was outside, but the cold of desolation, its spindly icy fingers creeping under every door, into every corner.<p>

One Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the window, watching the snowflakes drift lazily past. He played his instrument absently, bow sliding along random chords and fingers positioned haphazardly on the strings. His eyes were distant and his face was pale, his lips parted slightly. The mist from his breath fogged up the glass, making it difficult to see the little crystals dancing past.

The world continued on- how could it continue? Continue like normal? Continue like nothing had happened? Like nothing was lost?

So much had been lost.

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><p><em>Six year old Sherlock Holmes ran through the halls of his parent's manor as fast as his little legs would carry him, streaking past the butler, past the servants, past the endless rooms and mahogany doors. He came to the one at the end of the hallway and screeched to a stop, nearly slamming into the door and, tripping, he skimmed his hands on the ground in the process. Standing up and disregarding the burning in his palms, he reached up and grasped the handle of the door, tall for his age and dexterous. <em>

"_Mycroft, Mycroft!" He cried as he sprinted into the room, jumping on the bed and disrupting Mycroft's strewn about piles. Fourteen year old Mycroft Holmes yelped as his brother jumped on top of him, sprawled out on his bed. "Come play Pirates, come play Pirates!" _

_Mycroft sighed, pressing a hand to his brow. "Not now, Sherlock!" He muttered angrily, trying in vain to re-organize his papers. Sherlock caught sights of words like "uni-applicants" and "officially enrolled-" but he ignored these. They were boring._

"_Come on, Myc! Please?" Sherlock pleaded, curls bouncing as he rocked on the balls of his feet. He shifted._

"_No, Sherlock. I'm busy." Mycroft's voice held no room for argument._

_Sherlock shifted a little again, wringing his hands. He didn't want to do this, but this was his last card. "...I'll let you be Captain," he said grudgingly, and on the bed Mycroft froze, papers in each hand. _

"_...Pardon?" He asked, and Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms._

"_Don't make me say it again!"  
>"I couldn't hear you!" Mycroft sing-songed, a smile on his face which told Sherlock this torture was for Mycroft's sadistic pleasure.<em>

_Sherlock grunted. "I'll let you be Captain," he murmured angrily. A Cheshire grin spread across Mycroft's lips as he snatched the hat from Sherlock's head._

"_Deal."_

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><p>"<em>Mycroft, Mycroft!" Eight year old Sherlock shouted, running down the hall again. Sixteen year old Mycroft's door opened before Sherlock made it there.<em>

"_What, brat?" He asked, but Sherlock seemed unperturbed. _

"_Wanna play Pirates?" _

"_Why in the world would I possibly want to do that, Sherlock?!" Mycroft asked, throwing his hands in the air. Sherlock's face fell._

"_Because you're my brother. You always play with me," Sherlock insisted._

"_Go play with your dog."_

"_Redbeard doesn't like to wear the hat."_

_Mycroft huffed, spared one last look inside his room, and stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He folded his arms. "What are you willing to give me?"_

_Sherlock shifted. He hadn't anticipated this. "Erm...well…"_

"_Sherlock!" Mycroft prodded, a decidedly devious smirk on his face._

_Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes and blowing a lock of hair out of his face. "Fine."_

"_Fine what?" Mycroft looked incredibly pleased with himself._

"_You're Captain."_

_Another grin spread across Mycroft's face as he retreated into his room for a moment; the sound of ruffling was evident, but Sherlock had learned from past unpleasant experiences that he shouldn't inquire, nor should he enter. Mycroft reappeared a couple moments later, something behind his back as the other hand reached for the hat to place it on his head. When the other hand was exposed, there was a hook attached._

"_C'mon, First Mate. We have to catch Redbeard," Mycroft said, eyes twinkling._

_Sherlock's thrilled shout was heard down the street._

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><p>"<em>Mycroft?" A pause. "Mycroft." A sniffle. "Please."<em>

_The door opened._

_Eighteen year old Mycroft stood, leaning on the doorframe, arms hanging limply at his sides. He drank in his brother's appearance with a practiced ease, but there was an edge to his gaze that had not been there before. Stringy hair, red eyes, stained, cherry colored cheeks. Trembling hands. _

"_Sherlock."_

_The ten year old's chin wobbled. "He's, he's-"_

_Mycroft sighed heavily, standing straight up and folding his hands in front of him, a habit he'd developed in the past year. "He couldn't live forever, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out, arching an eyebrow. "You, of all people, should have realized that-"_

"_But he's gone, Mycroft," Sherlock insisted, his lower lip quivering. "Redbeard's...gone."_

_Mycroft gave a patient sigh. "Yes, he is, Sherlock. But he was just a d-"_

"_No he wasn't!" Sherlock yelled, eyes flashing. "Don't say that!"_

_Mycroft's face flushed a little pink at this, his own eyes gaining a dangerous glint. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. "Come, Sherlock."_

_The door opened wider._

_Sherlock obeyed._

_The room was strewn with papers of all colors, the chemistry set in the corner collecting dust. The radio in the corner looked decidedly unused and the computer on the desk had at least eighteen tabs open upon it. Mycroft sat on his bed, shifting aside papers to rest on his pillow and gesturing for Sherlock to sit too._

_Sherlock obeyed._

"_Sherlock," Mycroft said slowly, staring at his brother with dark, glimmering eyes, "All things die. All things end. That's the nature of things. Caring isn't an advantage. It only gets you hurt."_

_Sherlock whimpered, adjusting his legs to that he was sitting cross-legged. "But...But Mycroft…"_

"_No, Sherlock," Mycroft said, leaning forward. A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek and Mycroft's thumb gently wiped it away. "Caring isn't an advantage. Now stop crying. Captains don't cry."_

_And if Sherlock looked up at his brother with awe that day, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock mentioned it ever again._

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><p><em>The day he and Mycroft had a falling out, Sherlock was twelve.<em>

_Mycroft was visiting from uni on a break, chattering about future contacts and clients and may-be co workers. It was in a fit of childish spite of being ignored _again_, like he had been ignored on every other one of his brother's visits that Sherlock sneered, "Why? Don't you have friends like normal people?!"_

_His newfound not-caring method had worked wonders on school bullies (always jealous, jealous he could deduce things they couldn't, jealous he could see things that they couldn't, jealous he was smarter than they were) and he had therefore applied it to everything except his mother, who was still baffled at his sudden change in behaviour. He studied things Mycroft's old chemistry set (already dead; he wasn't a sadist nor a murderer) and deduced things about people on the street like Mycroft had taught him (three weeks engaged, cheating already, unhappy) seeking only his brother's...attention. After Mycroft had left him, Sherlock had been bored, alone, and extremely idle. Approval would be a stupid thing to seek as Mycroft had very little time to approve anything, but perhaps recognition would go further._

_Mycroft merely snarled back, "because I'm not normal; besides, you don't have any friends either, you freak."_

_His mother had properly scolded Mycroft while his father had sat there with his hands in his lap but a disapproving expression. _

_The pain in his chest was unexpected, only because when all the others said this it felt numb, like being cold from being in the snow too long. This was a burning sort of pain, and before he realized what he was doing, he was clutching his chest in an attempt to stifle the pain. If his face had crumpled, well, that was the least of his worries right now. His heart felt like it was being torn in half._

_Sherlock decided that he'd never trust his brother again._

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><p><em>When Sherlock had been idle after he dropped out of uni, his mind had been so acute that it <em>hurt _him when it was not in action, _doing _something, _deducing _something. Sherlock had tried to find an interesting job (office building, boring; Yard worker, boring; boring boring boring BORING) but had come up with nothing that would truly sate his intellect's constant appetite. _

_Without any other options and with pocketfuls of his parent's money, Sherlock turned to drugs._

_The coke dulled his senses wonderfully, took the edge off of his desire to do something. He could finally just _stop_, stop having to do, having to see. He could just...stop. Of course, the consequences were terrible and when he crashed from his high he'd curse his infinite stupidity, but...It dulled everything for a while. Turned everything down a few notches, like the fuzz and static when you get a station that's out of range on your radio. Life wasn't so _vibrant_. _

_Of course by this time Mycroft's government job had taken off and he had been out of touch for years, yet he kept one eye open for his little brother, who had a knack for getting into trouble. When he had finally managed to track down Sherlock Holmes and discovered his drug habits he had cut him off with barely a call and a flick of his wrist._

_Sherlock, of course, resented Mycroft incredibly by this time and had taught himself to be wary of everyone who _wasn't _his homeless network (who, at the time, was the closest thing he had to friends) and had moved constantly, abandoning living in an actual flat, feeling Mycroft couldn't track him this way._

_His coke habits picked up again without Mycroft's monitoring, and it had gone on for some time before the one chilly, autumn night that he had stumbled across a police taped corner. The Sergeant on duty was one Greg Lestrade and, although he had been high as a kite, Sherlock had given the admittedly patient man his deduction._

_A week later, Sergeant Lestrade was an Inspector._

_In that week, Sherlock realized that he had only dosed himself twice, four days after he had solved the case._

_And if Mycroft's sudden wish to be in the CCTV division of the British government was questionable, no one said anything._

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><p>The violin screeched.<p>

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><p>John hovered by the door, absently twisting his hands in his jumper. Sherlock stood stock still, the only things moving his fingers and the bow across the strings. John ran a hand over his face. "Sherlock," he said, and the playing abruptly came to a halt with a little out of tune squeak. The detective did not turn around. "You need to sleep- to eat. Anything. Something."<p>

Sherlock didn't move.

John exhaled. "There's a new case," he tempted, eyebrows raising. "Lestrade's baffled, the whole Yard is outwitted. They need you, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't move.

John huffed. "Come now, Sherlock," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can't just play that violin forever."  
>Sherlock didn't move.<p>

John sighed and ducked out of sight.

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><p>Sherlock waited until he could hear the click of John's lock before slowing his bow to a stop. The melody was one that he had completely composed himself in his earlier teenage years, using Mycroft's violin.<p>

Before he could ponder this any further, his back pocket vibrated. Sherlock rolled his eyes and repositioned his violin under his chin, swallowing. Insistently, the phone vibrated, as if to say, _I know you're ignoring me!_

Sighing, Sherlock pulled it out and flippantly glanced at the screen, eyes widening as he gazed longer at it. Minisculely, his lips curved into a small and quiet smirk.

_This is for the best, no matter what you may think. You do know that certain people must believe this, especially if I'm to pull it off- this is important. Besides; you, of all people, can understand my motivation. _

_You worry far too much, brother mine._

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><p><em>There's no other love like the love for a brother. There's no other love like the love from a brother. <em>

_-Terri Guillemets_

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><p><strong><em>So here's my EXPLANATION: Mycroft works occasionally for the CIA, correct? Undercover? (1st Episode mentions.) So...He...fakes his death like Sherlock! I don't know. I don't know. <em>**

**_I hope that it at least was alright, I don't really know the purpose of this, but I'm off to make some cookie cake, so...ciao! Thanks for reading and PLEASE, leave me some feedback! Good? Bad? Okay? Emotional?_**


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